Inside
by Rebecca Keith
What’s inside the chair? asks my daughter.
When I say, Squishy stuff, I quickly revise my answer
to mean like material, like this quilt lest she take
to tearing open the chair to find a stash of toddler gold—
squishy toys. What’s inside of us? I say your heart
and blood and when she asks what blood is I wonder
how she hasn’t learned this word yet but knows thermometer
and the names of the avenues we live between.
Then I get the idea to point to her skinned knee and say blood
so she squirms and curls into herself and me. We still say
she was in mama’s tummy so a lesson on real anatomy
seems premature. We talked about x-rays, the skeleton inside us
when my finger broke. It didn’t scare her that we have bones
like Halloween under our skin. What’s inside Charlotte?
The dog. I have to stop myself from Groucho Marxing this one
and think instead of how we took all eight pounds of her
for those first x-rays when she was a garbage dog
who clung to us while pneumonia grew inside her
and we grew instantly into those people
who called themselves parents to a canine
and assume massive responsibility without a nine month wait.
How long was she homeless? Looking for an inside
or thrilled to have escaped the people who were mean to her
as we call them. I tell my daughter about the land of wild shih tzus.
The internet tells me they share more DNA with wolves than many dogs,
which sounds like something written by a shih tzu
for clickbait. Sometimes they seem like blood sisters
the way I can’t stop petting them, their soft bellies,
don’t-leave-me eyes, or their stubborn streaks and potty issues.
The chair in question moved up from our basement,
left by a friend who lived there, then another. Zero feng shui
but in the end more comfortable than the overpriced swivel chairs
labeled NURSING. So we sat in the chair for countless hours,
sometimes all three of us. Lucy attached to my nipples,
hand wandering my hair and face. The dog’s nipples
maybe wondering where her puppies went. Her toe pads
all black except one—barely verbal Lucy pointed once
and said, Beans! a short-lived favorite food. I don’t know
how to teach the body, only learned what’s really inside of me
when they told me I might not conceive
without spending lots of time and money. I know that I want her
to understand why the lining sheds each month, why you want
the fluid like egg white, why pain doesn’t have to be
normal why a scar is still natural childbirth why you don’t have to wear shorts
under your sundress on a ninety degree day just because daycare says so
why when the receptionist asked if we’d been trying-trying I wouldn’t
find out I had endometriosis until two fertility doctors and one surgery later
why the tiny scars and the one big scar are the map to how she got inside
and how she came out and I would traverse them a million times to meet her.
When I say, Squishy stuff, I quickly revise my answer
to mean like material, like this quilt lest she take
to tearing open the chair to find a stash of toddler gold—
squishy toys. What’s inside of us? I say your heart
and blood and when she asks what blood is I wonder
how she hasn’t learned this word yet but knows thermometer
and the names of the avenues we live between.
Then I get the idea to point to her skinned knee and say blood
so she squirms and curls into herself and me. We still say
she was in mama’s tummy so a lesson on real anatomy
seems premature. We talked about x-rays, the skeleton inside us
when my finger broke. It didn’t scare her that we have bones
like Halloween under our skin. What’s inside Charlotte?
The dog. I have to stop myself from Groucho Marxing this one
and think instead of how we took all eight pounds of her
for those first x-rays when she was a garbage dog
who clung to us while pneumonia grew inside her
and we grew instantly into those people
who called themselves parents to a canine
and assume massive responsibility without a nine month wait.
How long was she homeless? Looking for an inside
or thrilled to have escaped the people who were mean to her
as we call them. I tell my daughter about the land of wild shih tzus.
The internet tells me they share more DNA with wolves than many dogs,
which sounds like something written by a shih tzu
for clickbait. Sometimes they seem like blood sisters
the way I can’t stop petting them, their soft bellies,
don’t-leave-me eyes, or their stubborn streaks and potty issues.
The chair in question moved up from our basement,
left by a friend who lived there, then another. Zero feng shui
but in the end more comfortable than the overpriced swivel chairs
labeled NURSING. So we sat in the chair for countless hours,
sometimes all three of us. Lucy attached to my nipples,
hand wandering my hair and face. The dog’s nipples
maybe wondering where her puppies went. Her toe pads
all black except one—barely verbal Lucy pointed once
and said, Beans! a short-lived favorite food. I don’t know
how to teach the body, only learned what’s really inside of me
when they told me I might not conceive
without spending lots of time and money. I know that I want her
to understand why the lining sheds each month, why you want
the fluid like egg white, why pain doesn’t have to be
normal why a scar is still natural childbirth why you don’t have to wear shorts
under your sundress on a ninety degree day just because daycare says so
why when the receptionist asked if we’d been trying-trying I wouldn’t
find out I had endometriosis until two fertility doctors and one surgery later
why the tiny scars and the one big scar are the map to how she got inside
and how she came out and I would traverse them a million times to meet her.
Rebecca Keith
Rebecca Keith’s writing has been featured on WNYC and appeared in Narrative, The Rumpus, Best New Poets, and elsewhere. Born and raised in NYC, she holds an MFA from Sarah Lawrence, curated MIXER Reading & Music Series, and plays music in Little Hustle and the Roulettes. She teaches high school English.